joyfully and looked at him; then she ran into his arms.

"Ah! you love me still?" she whispered, bursting into tears.

Though she had had strength to hide her suffering, she had none to
hide her joy.

"Let me have her for one moment," exclaimed the old master, "and you
shall compare her with my Catherine. Yes, yes; I consent!"

There was love in the cry of Frenhofer as in that of Poussin, mingled
with jealous coquetry on behalf of his semblance of a woman; he seemed
to revel in the triumph which the beauty of his virgin was about to
win over the beauty of the living woman.

"Do not let him retract," cried Porbus, striking Poussin on the
shoulder. "The fruits of love wither in a day; those of art are
immortal."

"Can it be," said Gillette, looking steadily at Poussin and at Porbus,
"that I am nothing more than a woman to him?"

She raised her head proudly; and as she glanced at Frenhofer with
flashing eyes she saw her lover gazing once more at the picture he had
formerly taken for a Giorgione.

"Ah!" she cried, "let us go in; he never looked at me like that!"

"Old man!" said Poussin, roused from his meditation by Gillette's
voice, "see this sword. I will plunge it into your heart at the first